


The Captain's Mark

by Bidawee



Series: you be the king and i'll be your queen (alternate and captain canon divergence) [3]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Contracts, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Peer Pressure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 12:42:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14873954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Bidawee
Summary: The dynamic duo. King and queen. Next Crosby and Malkin. Benn and Seguin. Ovechkin and Backstrom. They'd bleed blue and white.





	The Captain's Mark

**Author's Note:**

> A big thanks to my darling PKD for proofing the story for me; love ya girl. Another big thanks to my many besties which listen to me ramble about my fics on Tumblr for hours on end. I need to buy each and every one of you ice cream, honestly.  
> Bigger explanation in end notes if you need them; it is a bit confusing, haha. This one is a short fic for the sake of getting an idea out.

Word came back to him like it always did, behind the backs of the general managers and trainers. Talking about him, his performance, what he was capable of. It was like writing with someone looking over your shoulder; he’d carried the burden and skated twice as fast, worked twice as hard. He preened as much as a peacock would, hoping he was able to impress his impromptu audience with his on and off ice tricks.

They wanted to make him a captain, a real one, after years of absence. Hearing it plunged the rink into a swamp of dread. The type of dread that sunk into him like a wine stain in white cloth. He had to rationalize--if they were captain hunting and picked him then they'd exhausted all other candidates--no one else would have to trap themselves if he accepted. Like he had a say in the matter.

The next thought was about an alternate, or an aide. The same face he'd see, live with, talk to for the next decade or so of his playing career. Someone that fit him like a puzzle piece. He had his pick of the litter: he liked everyone. But whoever he chose would have to sacrifice the key essentials, their own privacy and income for him. Birds of a feather, tied at the ankles like a two-legged race competitor.

The problem, luckily, was likely to concede in a long-term relationship with Jake that would surmise in something whipped and sweet, where they kicked their feet up so the chocolate labradors could scamper underneath as they embarked on a movie marathon over television static and the radio capturing the highlights from the nightly games. It made the thought of a captaincy easier to swallow, imagining retiring in the city he was drafted to, watching his number fly high with hopefully a good number of Stanley Cups tucked under his belt, a change of tack in management the push necessary to finally make some progress.

They’d sat down and had long conversations, cocooned in hotel blankets and drunk on glasses of champagne. Of what was, what would be, the kind of reality they’d spin out of dream tendrils and grind into fruition. They’d clasped hands, touched mouths and sang and that made the ache disappear. Intoxicating was one thing to call it, dangerous the next, because there was something to be said about getting your hopes up.

“Once I’m captain, your rank becomes effective immediately. You’ll be protected,” he’d muttered into Jake’s neck. “The fucking media won’t have shit on you.”

“Swearing isn’t a good look on you Mo,” Jake chided, but kissed his forehead nonetheless. “I appreciate it.”

Jake’s arms stretched over his head, back arching as the muscles inside popped. “So is being an alternate as amazing as it seems?” Mo groaned, fanning his legs out as he made ample room for himself on the mattress, under the protection of the covers.

“Shit no, and we don’t even have a captain. Imagine bending to their every whim, being their little therapy puppy.” It left a bitter taste in his mouth. “I mean, no offence to them but carrying the weight of the team and keeping the captain’s morale high. That’s something.”

“You’re lucky I like you, because I might’ve bit you for that.” And true to Jake’s personality, he did so anyway. Square on his earlobe, a shockwave of sensations bustling through Mo’s skin.

They’d agreed to keep family separate, to only go so far and treat it more like a relationship than a business agreement. Captaincy was a lot of work, that’s why the aides and so-called alternates existed. It was something to chew on--on one hand it presented ample opportunity to feel safe, but it was like owning immunity and knowing your friends were mortal; only a matter of time. Knowing if something sacred broke between them that they still had to stay together for _years_.

Piloting an NHL team took a lot of work. He could take on more alternates to work where Jake couldn’t but that meant more men to look after, to share Jake with. And if the rumours were true, that he’d turn into the green-eyed monster, he wanted no part of it.

That day started like any other. Defenceman Mo, not captain Mo, in his stall, shucking off his socks so that he could take a routine trip to the showers to rinse off before lunch. The rest of the room was much of the same, little conversations breaking up the pockets of silence that were opening around the room. Jake was rambling on about something to do with calling a guy to fix their rickety lawnmower, lacking the skills necessary to do so, when the doors to the dressing room swung open. The only thing that could have made the following more surreal would be a row of trumpets signalling the arrival of management, sending men running back to their respective stalls to wait out the conversation.

Babcock ushered in ambient quiet, the analytics and team scouting operatives flocking in by the dozen and forming a protective circle around the coach, lead by Dubas. A multitude of fake smiles were plastered on their faces, the best media-grabbing shit that could come out of men in the late thirties to sixties. Then came the stampede of cameras. Men with microphones and notepads with pens strapped on every feasible article of clothing. The players were pushed back into their stalls by the mass of bodies, all trying to close in and become the centre of attention.

Dubas looked like a kid in a candy store, hands on his hips and smile preening at the work in front of him. The conversation with Babs was the first thing that came to mind, and his nerves lit with a cold fire that seared up through his stomach and jumped in his throat.

“Hey everyone, if I could have your attention for a minute please,” he said, but it was unnecessary. All eyes were already on him.

He took a few steps forward so that he was in the middle of the room. “This team has had their ups and downs these past few years, I’m sure many of you can attest to that. What really sets you guys apart from the rest is the solid trust you put in yourselves and each other. We’ve had many amazing leaders carry the torch for Toronto, but it’s time we name a captain. A real captain.” Hoots and hollers polluted the room, everyone on the edge of their seats trying to capture a good look at the general manager. Jake was jabbing his elbow into Mo’s gut, but he was too concerned with holding his breath to pay him much heed.

“Our new captain is someone with leadership potential and a wonder for teamwork and self-motivation. We believe he will lead the team into a new era of prosperity that we hope will end in Toronto bringing the cup home, and all of you making good memories to think back on for years to come.” Mo straightened his back, on the edge of his seat, ready to climb to his feet and accept the award.

“Without further ado, we are pleased to announce Auston Matthews as the new captain of the Maple Leafs.”

The noise picked up as if they were stranded in a rock concert, but all Mo could hear was the blood pulsing through his ears. The empty, hollow feeling inside of him like someone could knock and the sound would reverberate back through his skeleton.

“We wish to congratulate Auston on his achievement, and we hope you will wear the letter with pride,” Dubas said, line practiced and delivered with ease. Auston stood up, still in his under armour, and shook his hand, posing for the front-page story that would spark a conversation on forums and comment threads everywhere. Mo was cold. A stone cold wash that tucked around him like a blanket.

“I don’t-- wow. This is incredible, thank you.” Swarming around him, the sea of reporters made an enclosure that was near-impossible to penetrate much less see through. Jake was trying to get Mo’s attention, but he was looking ahead, unblinking. He could just barely see the tufts of hair belonging to Auston sticking up in every direction. His laugh was next; a question was being presented without much subtly and it was forcing positive reactions from the management team and the newly named captain.

Jake was nudging him, but Mo was trying to make eye contact with Babs and question his decision making. The complete roundabout of emotions which should have been content and appreciation but was now a bottomless sorrow, not because he necessarily wanted the undertaking but because he was ready for it. Stayed up past curfew pacing the hotel to work out his nerves and would glance over at Jake as he slept to make sure he was still safe, would forever be safe.

That they would have the privilege of being together forever, protected by superstitions that came from trading captains and a contract signed in blood. The fact they weren’t selected implied they weren’t valuable, that keeping them as a unit was worth less than the solidarity of having Auston Matthews as a forever Leaf.

And the kid looked winded, but not surprised. His jaw was locked in place as he dolled out the media-savvy answers with confidence. It was like he was born to take the role, and that’s maybe what scared him the most. Always knowing they would pick Auston even when they told him they had his best interests at heart. That he could never shape up because they were born and bred to be his little minions. And he loved him. Like a brother. Auston sat beside him on the plane after the Nylander scandal and helped him take charge when the team was being especially rowdy. It was no wonder he was chosen.

He would’ve liked to believe the stitched letters were reserved for him, but the second they called Auston’s name up during the draft it was all over. It was training him from a rookie to a star player that was currently the media darling, soaking up the hooting and screams of praise from his best friends and supporters.

And maybe, it was a bit of something else: fear. Fear that Auston would become a symbol and Mo’s value would not be undermined and instead, he would take what should have been Jake’s place. A partition that was immediate and fierce, and that he would be forced to look at Auston like he was something else.

“Are my privileges effective immediately or--“ Auston’s voice came out strong, unfiltered. Happy. Happy to be handcuffed to this damn city, not being able to see his family or work outside the league.

“Yes.” Dubas shook his head energetically and Auston hummed.

“Then, while I have you all here, I’d like to make a proposal.” And that nauseous feeling was making Mo’s skin break out cold and clammy in anticipation.

Auston strolled across the room, headed in the direction of Patty and split from his stall mate Nylander, which turned a few heads. Back when it had been largely undecided as to who would claim the city’s crown, Mo had heard his fair share of negotiations about the organization locking down Nylander and Matthews for life; leverage to keep hopes high and the team stitched together. Contracts aside, it would be profitable to keep two linemates attached at the hip.

But relationships took compromise, and compromise took withstanding chemistry. Something that, no matter how many times management demanded they sit beside each other on the plane or sleep in the same room, could not be repaired by fickle means alone. Willy was much too separate from Auston to really form a connection; those months spent trying to trick them into having a relationship ended in bitter arguments and line changes to work around the awkward, negative energy buzzing around their heads like flies.

It was the foundation for Mo’s captaincy. Auston expressed his lack of interest in a partnership, a fatal flaw that made hooking him a waste of valuable resources. That was two years back, when Toronto looked ready to follow in Edmonton’s stead and elect a child to reign over one of the most influential and critically acclaimed teams in the league. It was hard to parse if anything had changed in that short time that would make Auston desirable beyond his goal count, especially if he didn’t want the romantic counterpart of the relationship status that came with a captain and his aide.

Something had changed. Something crucial because no one bothered to fill Mo in on the details. Babs looked less than pleased. That was all background noise in light of Auston’s approach to the opposite side of the room, flanked by cameras and rookies with their tongues lolling. That’s when Mo got the first inclination, noticing how the players dispesed in different directions so that Mitch alone could greet Auston with wide eyes. His twisted smile that more resembled a frown because of how the corners of his mouth turned, so unlike the boy of many smiles.

From his spot, Mo couldn’t justify Auston’s expression, but he hoped it was something grim, that he wasn’t  _happy_ about this. No coming aide should be terrified at the prospect of being proposed to.

“Mitch, you’ve been such a good friend to me since I got here. I was hoping you’d want to be my aide.” The room cooed, cameras snapping images of the proposal to secrete it to memory. Mitch looked less than pleased: his eyebrows were snapped up and his shoulders tense at the admission. But just as he opened his mouth to speak, a flash went off and stunned him into awareness.

He was in a crowded locker room stuffed with media and gutted of privacy with management scrutinizing his every move. They looked happy with the development--Mitch might not play on his line but he was one of their better players--and plans were already formulating behind their eyeballs.

“Me?” The surprise was not lost on him--on any of them, actually. It was unprecedented to have someone just up and ask without former conversation. It was the equivalent of a stranger asking you to marry them, but on a much worse scale.

Because it meant contracts tied together. You could spit and cry as much as you wanted but you weren’t getting away. It made so many desire the captain spot, and so many others despise it. No man should have that much power, especially not someone who’d barely breached adulthood.

“I couldn’t imagine anyone else as my aide,” Auston said, getting down on his knees so that he could get a better look at Mitch. A few camera shutters went off. Mitch looked like a deer caught in the headlights. "We played in London and now play in Toronto. We went through rough patches, yes, but I believe now we're stronger than ever. I want to make sure that never changes."

“Uh,” Mitch started. His voice broke, and he cleared his throat. His eyes darted back and forth, taking in the media shitstorm about to blow in and sweep him off his feet. It wasn't uncommon for proposals to come out of right-wing, but this was ridiculous. There was no response he could cook up that wouldn't make him the headliner, and only one reply would guarantee he not become a pariah.

Then, Mitch closed his eyes; accepting his fate more like, with how he went as still as a statue. “Uh, yes. Yes, Auston.”

Still both shaking in their skates, they embraced, still sweaty from practice but the joy of the moment lost of them. Mitch looked traumatized from over his shoulder, as if just reevaluating the repercussions of making a split-second decision. What it did, and would continue to do, to his career, his family, his romantic affairs. That his name would be stamped to Auston’s.

They went from three alternates to a captain and an aide in a single day. Next would come the press conferences and interviews, everything and the kitchen sink to report on the change of events. The Maple Leafs dynasty ending with two players locked down.

“Why did you do it?” he asked Mitch, when the worst of it had cleared out. The kid was pale as a sheet, cornered around the equipment as if to create a physical barrier between himself and them.

“I panicked,” he said, almost too quiet to hear. “What could I say that wouldn’t make the city hate me?”

“I wouldn’t hate you,” he said, that was true. Mitch was still a kid, he didn’t need this, not now. He looked like he would’ve bolted out the back door, but Auston was standing guard, donning the c-stitched jersey with pride. Mo could only imagine how much of a dictatorship the locker room would be with management controlling Auston’s every move, feeding him bittersweet truths that he wouldn’t be able to handle. Mitch would be a byproduct of that control, and it wouldn't be pretty in the bedroom if they hadn't run the rounds of trying to exist as a couple.

Auston was smiling but he was probably just as empty, dragged down to the depths grabbing Mitch’s ankle. Maybe he panicked too. Didn’t want to be alone, needed his best friend to cope. Or it could be something much worse; Auston had a way of making things work out in his favour, even when his looks said otherwise. If this really was premeditated and the team wanted to ensnare him, they doomed their other star player too. But it wasn’t like it was a bad thing, oh, no no no.

Mitch fretted, “They would. Auston would. I mean, it’s almost good, y’know? Now I know I’ll be in Toronto forever. Auston and I will still be friends, that won’t change. We’ll just have to accommodate more, I guess. It will be a bit weird having to boss you around.” Mo tried to laugh, but it came out hoarse. The growing horror was sinking its claws into both of them. Mitch excused himself with the wave of his hand, skirting over to the double doors where the cameras stalked among hockey sticks and gloves with anticipation. Where Auston stood tall.

The dynamic duo. King and queen. Next Crosby and Malkin. Benn and Seguin. Ovechkin and Backstrom. They'd bleed blue and white, and though there’d never been envy, something about the way Auston looked at Mitch reminded Mo all too well of the promises he made to Jake. The one now void in the face of this new twisted relationship that rang just as empty in the long run.

**Author's Note:**

> come dump headcannons on me or talk fic on tumblr at @cursivecherrypicking, i always love the company and sometimes post collages, art, or extras from my verses.
> 
> I mainly wanted to address a universe where captains are sought out by organizations and pinned to a city. Their contract becomes concrete so to speak; they are crowned king of the city and become the face of advertising, never far from the city, always associated with it. A captain is like general manager of the team, they are untouchable. And they usually consult (or more choose) their alternates. Alternates are still alternate captains but can also be a captain's aide. Queen to the king. Has power, but not as much, usually compliments them nicely. Their contracts become intertwined. They are a unit. And to not agree is a dishonour. These relationships often become obsessive in nature because they become dependent on each other, and therefore becomes romantic.
> 
> Left it ambiguous if Auston chose Mitch because he freaked out and wanted his friend or if he generally wanted Mitch as a romantic partner. I left the tags just in case.


End file.
